At the risk of having posts on my blog that are better than my own, this is a guest post from PenguinEMT - one of the people at the top of my list of friends whom I've never met. Yet.
She lay in a barren field, the blood from her face and knees mixing with the dirt and grime to hold her together as a sheath of discolored glue. I heard no sound, save that of the vehicles racing by. As I came closer, I heard some slight gurgling and moaning. The officers stood back as we surveyed what has become a scene that haunts my dreams.
I spoke to her softly, trying to encourage a response. Nothing. Once in the ambulance she roused, shielding her face with her hands, screaming in absolute terror. My voice calm, I assured her we were there to help. With every procedure, every move we made, she recoiled and screamed, her voice hoarse.
We weren't to touch her, she said. She belonged to her husband. Only he could touch her.
He would be angry.
He lay curled up on the basement floor, the blood soaking the carpet. A crimson mist coated the walls. From upstairs I could hear the sounds of anger. Downstairs, however, it was eerily quiet.
A faint pulse, but no response. Four occlusive dressings and two packs of gauze. I spoke loudly, attempting to garner a reaction. Any reaction. Finally, at the hospital, I heard a faint whisper.
"Thank you," he mouthed, eyes still closed.
She stood in the kitchen, a mere wisp of a thing. The anger was palpable, her face mottled with tears. The knife block was empty, its contents scattered on the counter-tops and in the sink. All of them covered in blood.
My exhausted mind traveled back in time, just an hour.